


Warning

by aishahiwatari



Series: Trektober 2019 [8]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU, Blood, Dubious Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Mirror Universe, Nipple Piercings, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Possessive Behavior, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 19:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/pseuds/aishahiwatari
Summary: “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want to do this?”It’s a rhetorical question, of course. Kirk can’t answer, not with a gag in his mouth, not with petulant hatred blazing in his eyes. His usual recourse -intense and prolonged violence- is also unavailable. McCoy knows him, maybe better than anyone but certainly enough to sedate him in order to strip him naked and strap him to an operating table before he began this attempt to bring them to an understanding.He’s not performing an operation on Kirk, but the tables are so much easier to clean when he’s finished.(for day 8 of Trektober 2019, prompt: Erotic Torture)





	Warning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Mirror!verse fic. Mind the tags.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t want to do this?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course. Kirk can’t answer, not with a gag in his mouth, not with petulant hatred blazing in his eyes. His usual recourse -intense and prolonged violence- is also unavailable. McCoy knows him, maybe better than anyone but certainly enough to sedate him in order to strip him naked and strap him to an operating table before he began this attempt to bring them to an understanding.

He’s not performing an operation on Kirk, but the tables are so much easier to clean when he’s finished.

The door is locked. They’re all alone. The room is sound-proofed enough to prevent words spoken at a regular volume from carrying.

But anyone in Med-Bay would be able to hear screaming.

Kirk can still scream. He can still give away his pain and terror, if he’s not strong enough to hold them in.

McCoy thinks he is, thinks he has a very clear picture of exactly what Kirk can take and plans to balance them both on that metaphorical -and physical, he thinks, smiling- knife’s edge.

“But clearly you’ve forgotten what’s important. And if I don’t remind you, if I don’t make you listen, things will end badly for both of us. Is that what you want?”

All he earns in response is a glare, but if he’s not very much mistaken, it’s a repentant one. Maybe there is some hope for this ridiculous, fool-hardy man after all. Maybe he’s not going to get them both killed.

“I think you need a reminder that’ll stick.”

Even Kirk, even the stoic and commanding Captain wrenches, tears at his bonds when McCoy opens a small leather case containing his needles. Kirk shakes his head, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, breathing ragged and quick.

He knows what McCoy has planned, immediately. But if he knows then he should have been more careful to avoid it.

“You forget, sometime. You go storming off into situations you don’t understand. You challenge authority figures before you’re ready to fill the position that’s opened by their absence. I can’t always be there to stay your hand. But these will be.”

He doesn’t have to, but he drops the barbells he plans on threading through Kirk’s pretty dusky nipples into a metal dish, just to see Kirk twitch at the sounds. He’s gorgeous, tense and straining, his muscles standing out, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Leather straps dig into his wrists, even though McCoy knows full well that he left ample space for circulation. Kirk’s fighting them.

And he’s already a little hard. He only gets that way when he feels safe, and when he’s with McCoy. Contrary to popular belief, those are not the same thing.

McCoy disinfects his tools carefully. Kirk loves pain, and McCoy thinks he’s more terrified of giving that away than anything else, as though there’s a chance he couldn’t know that by now. For Kirk, the worst part is the anticipation. He drives himself crazy imagining just how bad it could be, but when it comes down to it, McCoy knows, he’ll gasp and writhe and arch into the source of it.

Actually, McCoy muses, listening that laboured breathing, watching the rise and fall of a toned, pale chest, maybe he can stretch this out a little longer.

It’s been a while since he’s practiced his cursive, and it’s difficult to find the angle he wants, but by straddling Kirk’s waist he can both reach where he needs and feel the shifts of that delicious body shooting right up his spine. He’s still dressed, of course, but Kirk’s eyes darken when McCoy settles even his uniform-clad weight over the length of his stirring cock.

“Keep still,” he reminds Kirk, absently, twirling his knife between his fingers as he contemplates, envisions his masterpiece. He’s been accused of looking at people like they’re pieces of meat, but if Kirk were just a dead slab on a table, this wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying.

The first sweeping curve of the L begins up by Kirk’s collarbone, makes him groan where he would otherwise have hissed through his teeth, if not for the gag. It’s a pleasant sound, and the blood welling up in one smooth, unbroken line beneath the stroke of his blade is lovely too. It wouldn’t drip, but Kirk’s chest judders and trembles with his breathing, even though he’s trying to keep it shallow.

As though he thinks McCoy might really hurt him, if he moves too much.

Frankly, if McCoy hasn’t fatally stabbed him by now, he never will.

Soon, the single long, curving line of McCoy’s first name adorns the space across Kirk’s pectorals, above his nipples, shining and red, thin trickles adorning the spaces between the letters, accentuating the lines and curves of his muscles.

His middle name will sweep across Kirk’s ribs, when it’s finished. Except McCoy’s knife nicks the skin just below his sternum, over his diaphragm, and he lets out a sweet little sob and flinches so violently he diverts McCoy’s blade from its chosen path.

“Oops. Slipped.” McCoy lifts the knife, but Kirk’s relief, expressed in a huff of breath and the flutter of eyelashes, is short-lived. McCoy only reaches for the regen, and the needling, crawling sensation of his skin knitting together where Leonard just parted it makes Kirk keen.

Beneath McCoy’s ass, he’s hard.

McCoy expected no less. He shifts as though to get more comfortable, settles Kirk’s erection more firmly in the crease of his ass and begins writing his middle name again.

By the time he’s finished, uninterrupted this time, Kirk’s every breath is leaving him in a high-pitched whine. His cheeks are pink, his chest all sorts of mottled shades between crimson and blanched white, blood rising to the surface and spilling over precisely as desired. Leonard watches one drop slip from his sternum, catch on trembling abdominals before sliding down to Kirk’s navel. He licks his lips, and Kirk shivers. His eyes are lidded, but they’re fixed on McCoy.

When their gazes meet, it feels like sparks fly between them. It always has.

It’s times like this, McCoy wishes he had a longer name.

He pushes Jim into the table with a hand on the middle of his chest, smudging his lines, making him shrill and leans his weight there as he carves his last name with steady, gratuitous deliberation into Kirk’s rippling stomach.

He’s never made it through that one without having to start again, before. Maybe Kirk really is learning. He certainly seems to think he can get away with behaviour he would never have attempted, back when they’d first met.

The adrenaline’s coursing through him now, though, and he’s high on the pain, limp in his bonds, not even shifting his hips against McCoy’s ass. It’s almost disappointing, except McCoy doesn’t need to move, not really, to complete his next task.

He just needs clamps, and thick needles, and heavy platinum barbells. They’re all within reach.

He thumbs at Kirk’s nipples to harden them, makes him shudder and groan because he knows what’s coming but he’s looking forward to it now, knows that McCoy will hurt him better than anyone else ever has, that he’d never risk permanently damaging him as much as he loves to threaten it.

McCoy would only ever improve him, but he has a sneaking suspicion that Kirk loves to be threatened. It’s where he feels most at home.

He pinches, and then he tugs, wipes liberally with disinfectant that makes Kirk shiver with the cold. And then he reaches for the clamps.

He has no idea why he’s never done this before, knows only that he’s thrilled to have the chance to do it now. This is a unique opportunity, and he plans to savour every single moment.

So they both moan when the first needle slides through sensitive flesh like it’s butter, McCoy’s steady hands threading the barbell through after it, twisting the fastening ball. He’s practiced, but it’s never felt like this, never been such a visceral act of possession, never made something deep inside him purr with satisfaction.

And he really shouldn’t, but the regen’s right there, and he can fix whatever damage he might end up doing, and he cannot wait another instant to have that reddened, swollen bud in his mouth, hot against his tongue, metal clicking against his teeth, Kirk groaning long and low and heartfelt as he arches into it then keens at the sensation of pulling at his healing cuts.

“So damn gorgeous,” McCoy murmurs, blowing cool air over the wetness he’s left even as he scrapes his fingernails down Kirk’s bloody ribs to make him writhe. He bares his teeth in something close to a smile as Jim snarls, and then he wipes off the needle and prepares the clamp again.

This time, he makes Kirk wait, hovers, close enough to touch with the very tip of the needle until Kirk’s eyes are wide and pleading, fixed on him, begging him for the sweet relief of metal piercing his sensitive nipple. He wants it so badly he’s silent when McCoy finally pushes through, his mouth falling open in a blissful scream that never escapes, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.

McCoy has never wanted anyone more, and he fastens the second barbell then tosses everything else aside so he can wrap a hand around Kirk’s cock and coax him into coming hard, pulsing out creamy white stripes that sting where they touch broken skin and tear a gratified, hoarse moan from his dry throat.

He comes, too, with his pants shoved down just far enough and a few harsh strokes, Kirk watching him from beneath damp lashes.

Exactly like McCoy thought, he arches into the spurts that paint his chest, that bring the raw sting of the cuts clawing to the surface, mix with what’s already spilled there to make pretty, pink swirls dripping down from Leonard’s claim.

He flicks one of the metal barbells with a fingernail and Kirk tenses, then huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll be more careful, Bones,” he says, voice hoarse but apparently sincere when McCoy pulls the gag out and tosses it aside.

“Maybe. Or maybe they will, when they see who you belong to.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m also on [Tumblr](https://aishahiwatari.tumblr.com/)


End file.
